The End Ward

The End Ward


The frothy liquor burbled,
Synthing surely into mead,
Gurgling, sucking, wrenching,
As the old nurse said.

She was a women of passion,
Medicines sliding through her hands,
Looking in horror as he slipped away.
The mead brewed a storm.

Then the old nurse silenced,
No more burbling came,
And the wrenching stopped.
Instead, a cold scream that purged the froth
Chilling it into a solid cavern,
It trapped him, cursed him, purged him.
Just as the old nurse left,
Another froth gurgled,
A froth of tears over a stony basin.